Night Terror

By: Alexander Rivera

Up and down her body would move with every breath. The somber shades of nighttime gray have long since engulfed the bedroom. I lie awake again, quietly waiting, restlessly watching. I never really understood the idea of bags under my eyes until recently. The weight is unbearable. My loneliness, my paranoia, my devotion, all of them, my faults, I carry in these weary eyes.

She always looked so innocent asleep, unlike the wakeful hours. I use to look forward to the night. Now it’s all the same. I lie on my side though painful and uncomfortable. I have to watch.

She has terrible night terrors. Has had them since I’ve known her, though they have increased as of late. Every night, for weeks

now, she arises in the bed. Every night I wait in the stillness, in our dreary, dark bedroom. I witness her seemingly lifeless body become animate, reminiscent of any number of zombie movies, yet infinitely more terrifying.

For once in this state, the taunts begin: the scolding of my pathetic existence; the commanding suggestions of suicide. These events amounting to more than all the regular abuse I obtain during daylight hours.

I patiently wait for the malevolence tonight. Tired of the uncomfortable pain, I roll on my back, all the while keeping attention to the corner of my eye. This torment has affected my sleep. I’ve lied awake each night waiting, dreading.

As I notice the shadows on the wall, emerging from the fiery red glow of the alarm clock, my mind plays tricks to make up for the lack of dreams. The lifeless silhouettes seem to blend together creating a devilish ghoul, erupting from the glowing pits of hell; a ghost, come to possess my wife.

I don’t think I wanted to get married. She has been making decisions for me for a long time. She just wants the best. Her ideals are that of the most prosperous couple and she always gets what she wants. For me to sleep other than by her side would be out of the question. Normal couples always sleep together. That’s why she locks the bedroom door.

The haunting figure is creeping ever closer now. The spectacle is soon. I divert my attention to the ghastly portraits of her on the wall. The nighttime gloom seems to blacken her eyes and exaggerate her grin, portraying a monstrosity of nightmarish proportions. I resume my close watch of the less frightful shadow demon.

I dare not bother her with my lack of sleep. She has more important concerns. I mustn’t bother her with my petty inconveniences. She’s already very helpful with my downfalls. Her comments and insults are just constructive criticisms.

The shadow has made its way, now performing its hellish dance over my slumbering wife. Then it comes.

In the dead silence, I recognize the noise, the sound of the springs settling beneath her adjusting body. The clanging almost echoes in the silent, hollow bedroom. The corner of my eye displays a most frightening of sights, my summoned wife, unconscious as a corpse yet as aroused as a preying beast. The cold gust of fear envelops my body, provoking the customary shivers. I notice the scowl of her brow and the gritting of her teeth as I anticipate the coming abuse.

The ridicule begins. My strength, my skills, my intelligence, my mannerisms, my existence, all denounced. I lie still and take my degradation, but not like a soldier. More like dried wood being exposed to a roaring fire.

The situation soon escalates as she begins smothering me with her pillow, her unconscious attempts to extinguish this burning plank of a person. I fight ever so gently as to not wake her, but tonight my struggle is futile. I lack energy from sleeplessness and my limbs ache from abuse.

The pillow closes tight over my face. My breaths grow short. I feel my body assume numbness from the lack of oxygen. All is quiet. I never felt so comfortable in my life. The shadow of it all is dredged in my breathless sleep.